Page 6 of Single Mom’s Secret Diary (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection)

Avery

F inally, room to breathe. It took a dark, pointed look at Ezra to get him to leave me once he handed me the key to my office.

It’s not giant, but it’s not tiny, either. I have enough space to pace, to host a few guests, to spread out a little bit. I’d planned to decorate a little today—putting pictures of my family out with a couple of knickknacks.

The pictures will stay firmly in my bag, but I do put out the Emeril Lagasse bobblehead next to my computer screen. Dad bought it for me years ago since he’s my favorite TV chef.

I tap his head and watch him wobble before I sign into my work computer, filling out a detailed form about my first tasting experience for Nguyen Candy Company.

It encapsulates everything about the sesame truffle but nothing of the interpersonal and internal drama that’s left me swirling in a panic attack.

I pull out my traveler’s notebook and my favorite pen and jot down the emotions fluttering in and out of my chest until I have them down on paper.

This opens me up to more. Something substantial that I dare not say aloud.

His brown eyes look the same, the gold flecks a stable circle around his pupil.

Those long lashes are still unfair because of the way they soften his face.

Everything else about Ezra seems to be sharper.

Harder. The muscles of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves.

The expanse of his shoulders and back is wider.

The old parts of me—the naive ones—are desperate to press and test his flesh to see if he feels the same.

The roughness in his hands has softened, too. Is it all the time in the office? Has he given up a hobby? A passion? I wish I knew, had asked more about his life ten years ago. What’s changed in that decade to alter these different parts of him?

By far, the worst part is how the way he looked at me is so similar to the way he looked at me in Cancún. Like he’s surprised but pleased to have found me. That I’m not breathing down fire upon him, even though part of me still wants to.

It’s that part of me that checked for a ring on his left hand, which I found empty, by the way. You fucking hypocrite.

Although, can I really blame you? The extra ten years look good on him.

But let’s not linger on him, shall we? That’s a deep hole we can fall into, and clawing our way out of it will leave us with a lot of scrapes and bruises.

The chocolatier, Wyatt Reid, has the kind of personality that I’m accustomed to in a kitchen. Not my dad’s kitchen, mind you, but other kitchens he’s taken me to. Chefs can be some of the most cold-hearted bosses, but I get it. Standards.

By comparison, Wyatt isn’t bad. Abrupt. Honest. Maybe a little unfamiliar with subtler social cues. Nothing I can’t deal with.

In fact, he seemed to appreciate my banter. I’m a straight shooter, too.

His reaction to my tasting skills was odd. I can’t decide whether he’s impressed or upset over it. I didn’t even dig deep. I could have told him which vanilla bean he used, even which milk powder.

I don’t think it would have endeared me to him, but I’m pretty sure I can win him over with my work ethic. I’m always tasting and cataloging new flavors, new ingredients for Dad.

A clipped knock on my door jars me from my notebook—my new diary, it seems. I stuff it back in my purse as the man I was writing about appears in the small gap I’d left to seem inviting.

“Mr. Reid. How can I help you?” I stand behind my desk as he slips inside, making the space seem smaller with his height, with how big his personality seems to be even in his silence. A paper cup is pinched between his long fingers. “Another test?”

He frowns down at the chocolate in his grip. “No. Not exactly. I didn’t make this one.”

My brow lifts, and I wave him inside. “Who made it?”

He takes two long strides inside, hovering at the seats in front of my desk.

“Please. Have a seat.”

His body flops down like he has little control over it. Wyatt places the chocolate in its wrapper on my desk between us. I sit, too, folding my hands together as I wait for his answer.

The pale green of his eyes is a shade I’ve never seen before—the perfect balance of blue and yellow that’s been left out in the sun to bleach.

“Mr. Reid?” I prompt.

He blinks at me. “Wyatt.”

I can practically see him shaking himself out of his thoughts.

“The chocolate was made by a competitor. I’m curious what the ingredients are.” He splays his fingers toward the small truffle almost like an order to divulge all of the little confection’s secrets.

I tap the side of the paper and hide my smile as he twitches. Pulling it nearer, I lift the little guy and take a sniff. I get a small tinge of spice, but mostly, the medium dark chocolate and colorant in the cocoa butter spray come through.

The shine is good, and the snap of the chocolate under my teeth is nice.

Closing my eyes, I let the shell melt first. Again, the colored cocoa butter comes through first. Then, sixty percent dark chocolate. It blends into the small bit of semi-sweet ganache filling. A small bit of sweetness mixes vanilla, cinnamon, honey, and ancho chili.

I take a second small bite to confirm the notes before I open my eyes to meet Wyatt’s intense stare. He doesn’t flinch at being caught. I doubt he knows how unsettling it is.

“Why do you close your eyes? Why such small bites?” And his gaze drifts to my mouth when I pull my bottom lip between my teeth to get the last traces of chocolate.

“Smaller pieces allow me to move from the front of my palate to the back in a more controlled manner. And closing my eyes merely helps me concentrate on taste and smell. The texture. I have put in earplugs for more complicated endeavors to home-in even more.”

“What did you taste?” He leans forward, those large hands balled into the fists on his knees.

I smile. “The chocolate is commercially made—by a machine instead of stone ground and hand mixed. It’s almost identical to the chocolate from Cadbury. They use a different oil for the shine—soy.”

I make a small face at that. It’s not my favorite carrier oil.

“Inside is a bit more basic—a semi-sweet ganache, fifty percent, with a clotted cream instead of whipping cream, Tahitian vanilla extract made with rum, which complements the cinnamon and ancho chili’s sweet, mild heat.

The honey used isn’t the usual clover.” I lick my lips again.

“Oaxaca Mexican honey. The colored cocoa butter on top detracts from the other flavors a bit.”

I let the second half of the chocolate rest in the paper cup he’d brought it in.

“And you never finish the piece?” Wyatt glances at the cup. Would he taste the other half after me? He doesn’t seem like the type to carelessly share germs.

“Since my job is to eat, Mr. Reid, it’s best that I not overindulge.”

His gaze darkens as he stares into me. “Wyatt.”

I smile at him softly. “Wyatt.”

A small shudder seems to run through him. Is the chocolate the real reason he came to my office?

His plump mouth opens as if to say something, but another voice cuts over him.

“But indulgence is part of our game, Miss Caruso.” In comes another handsome man—slim and styled with slick hair and a bright white shirt that’s left unbuttoned too low on his bronzed chest—without so much as a knock.